First Time Regret
by LoquaciousLupin
Summary: Sherlock is dead. A dead man walking. He knows that he needs to disappear, but he can't until he's sure John and Mrs Hudson are okay. He needs someone to talk AT and there is only one person he can think of..
1. Dead man walking

It was one of those side streets with only a handful of lamps on which he now walked. The darkness of the London street would probably have scared most people but for him it was actually quite helpful. At least he wouldn't have to worry about being spotted by any neighbours – they probably wouldn't react well to seeing a dead man walking.

Of course he wasn't really dead, at least not physically and he, along with the rest of the world was beginning to accept that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Whatever he was now he could not now or ever return to being Sherlock, for the sake of Mrs Hudson, for; for John, Sherlock was dead and buried and he, whoever that made him now, had to let go of the life he had acquired living in Baker Street for the past few years with John, and start again.

It therefore made no sense to him that he was on this street now, outside her door. It wasn't safe and it certainly wasn't logical or even remotely intelligent to be here.

Though Sherlock Holmes had for his whole life strived to avoid relationship and feelings and all other such nonsense that weakens the soul and distracts the mind, it seemed that Mr Holmes could not die, could not drift off silently into the unknown until he was certain that John and Mrs Hudson would be okay. All it grief, regret, love, sentimentality, whatever you wish, no matter the name, the feelings produced remain the same and though he had fought them, ignored them and even at first denied them, Sherlock knew he could not beat or override a chemical reaction, he could not merely convince his brain to think nothing more on the subject as he would wish to do! And so the only logical solution to this highly irrational surge of feelings was to make sure John would be looked after – cared for, that once he had finished the five stages of grief he would be able to move on and live his life as a fine Doctor and wonderful man.

Text:

To Molly:

Let me in. Now

Please.

888

She couldn't believe he was in her house, walking around her little room, studying her pictures, her book collection and oh God, he certainly wouldn't approve of her taste in DVDs. The last few days had been such a rollercoaster, she felt like she'd been battered black and blue. When he'd first asked her for help she'd simply gone into over drive, Sherlock wanted her help, isn't that what she'd wanted from the beginning – for him to trust her, depend on her, need her. And yet in the days after they'd said their rushed goodbye she'd grieved for him as if she, like John and Mrs Hudson, really thought he was dead. She'd helped save his life and in the process she'd almost killed herself.

She hoped that he wouldn't be studying her little flat too closely. Would he notice the fact that she was wrapped in her dressing gown at 7pm, the tissues and food wrappings on the floor, not to mention her duvet on the sofa; would he know that from the moment he's hugged her for a split second and muttered thanks and goodbye, that once she'd gotten home and climbed into her pyjamas she hadn't moved from her sofa apart from to get more food and tissues.

She hoped he wouldn't deduce from her puffy red eyes that she could barely get through a whole hour without crying.

She prayed he would never deduce from all the idiotic things that she did just how much she really truly loved him.

She knew that he would never realise just how much him being here was killing her.

'_Please God, please don't ever let him say goodbye again.'_


	2. The Digital Switch Over

**Hey all. I just wanted to thank you for reading my first Sherlock fanfic, I was a bit scared to post it because... well Sherlock is such an amazing show! But this story just wouldn't leave my head, so it had to written down! I hope you'll stick with me while I keep going with this. **

**and because I didn't put it on my first chapter... Disclaimer: clearly I'm not smart enough, rich enough or eloquent enough to have come up with any of these characters myself! They belong to the amazing memory of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and facets to the new BBC series Sherlock (which continues to break my heart every time I re-watch the final problem!) **

**So anyhoo... hope you enjoy! more to come very soon!**

**(anyone reading this, who is waiting for a post on my hp ff, one of those days, I will post tomorrow! promise!) **

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><p>888<p>

She'd been crying on and off for the past few days, her apartment was a mess, she wasn't eating properly and she was sleeping in front of her TV. All of that was obvious, and though it seemed ridiculous to him, he also acknowledged that her behaviour was directly linked to him, to his actions.

Stupid girl!

And there it was again, that ridiculous feeling that seemed to be utterly in control of him at the moment. Clearly he'd been spending far too much time with ordinary people, his mind was becoming accustomed to their feelings, their emotions, which he had thought was useful, but now his mind seemed to be duplicating them.

He'd assumed that since Molly had known that he was alive and well that she would be perfectly fine and that his fake death would have no more effect on her at all - he could see now he'd been mistaken, and he felt something because of it… was it guilt? Whatever it was, it was a useless emotion as there was nothing they could do to make her feel better.

He was alive and she knew it. What more did she need?

He wished that John could be in on all of this, that he could show him all the pain and suffering and that maybe John would finally concede that emotions and relationships were useless.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice sounded rattled but she was hiding it quite well, clearly she didn't want him to know she'd been crying. He wasn't sure if he should be worried that his normal need to point out everything he'd observed was absent. He sat down in the chair opposite her sofa and stared out of the third floor window.

"I am in good health."

He'd already heard in the sound of her voice that she was enquiring after more than his general health but he couldn't put any of his 'feelings', alien as they were to him, into words.

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you again for awhile did I. Not that I'm not glad to see you. I am, well, I, it's just…"

Sherlock raised his hand to stop her mutterings. They made his head hurt even more.

"Yes I do apologise for just dropping in but…"

There was no other way to articulate what had just popped into his head, a head that he didn't seem to know or understand at all anymore.

"I didn't have anywhere else to go. Anyone else I could, that I could, anyone I could talk to."

Holly walked over to her sofa and seemed to crumple into it, wrapping herself in her oversized duvet.

"You want to talk about something? With me?"

Her voice revealed her incredulousness at his statement. Her face, the way she was looking at him when she repeated his words was almost child-like, and yet when one took in her whole person she seemed to have aged a great deal in only a few days.

The only way to explain what was happening to him was that his brain had, ever since he could remember, been working on analogue, he'd been able to see the obvious things that others missed, been able to take in peoples appearance, characteristics, personalities and make no judgements or observations other than ones surrounded in fact and logical.

But now, tonight, from the moment John had been stood, broken at his grave, it was as if he'd switched to digital. Suddenly, though he could still do everything he had before, he now noticed other things too. He noticed how his actions hurt people, and not only was he noticing, he also was starting to believe that perhaps he even _understood _why his action hurt others. And right now he was positive he was hurting Molly.

"Tea. I think I'll make some tea."

She said when he didn't respond to her question. Once she'd made the tea and returned to her spot on the sofa, Sherlock had organised these new thoughts and he exhaled loudly.

"John. John isn't doing well. I went there – to Baker Street, I've been watching him and Mrs Hudson. She seems okay, occasionally she comes across something of mine that's somehow been put in her own flat and she'll get cross with me and then have a brief cry, and then she gets on with her day. She copes, that's what people do when someone dies, they get on with their own life. But John."

Sherlock paused, he knew he sounded utterly ridiculous, but this new side of his mind seemed to need to express himself, perhaps it didn't really matter if Molly was listening or not, he just needed to say it out loud.

"John just sits in his chair, he doesn't cry or yell or do anything. He doesn't respond to Mrs Hudson when she brings him food, he doesn't eat, which is unusual for him. He should be well past the first stage of grief by now, he should be past denial and into anger, but from what I've perceived he's not.

He keeps texting me you know. That first day he searched the flat for my phone, when he couldn't find it in the bag with all my other personal belongings. He turned the whole place upside down, when he was sure it wasn't in the flat he texted me and asked me what I was playing at and when was I coming home. That this wasn't funny anymore. That he n…

That he needed me.

I nearly replied. I've become so weak, so pathetic that I actually wrote out a response to at least 5 of his messages. But don't you see Molly, he _can't _need me! Sherlock Holmes is dead, he can't need me because I can't help him."

Molly looked angry.

"This is bloody stupid Sherlock, you're _not _dead! You're sitting right in front of me acting as if you have all the problems in the world on your shoulders. You're making all your friends mourn for you whilst you are still alive! Stop it! Stop it now. Just stop it.

Go now, get out. Go and tell John that you're alive and that everything is going to be fine, that we're all going to be fine because you're NOT DEAD! Get out, go. Sherlo, please go."

Molly was stood in front of him, her speech had started out barely audible but as she'd moved from her seat to stand by his chair, she'd gotten angrier and louder.

"I can't do that." He stated calmly.

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><p><strong>Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate a review... but I will :-) You can deduce what to do, I'm sure! :-D<strong>


	3. What are friends for?

**Hey guys, thanks for the reviews, I'm glad some of you are enjoying this :) I'm finding it fun to write, but quite hard too! Sherlock is so particular! lol, him and my muse don't always see eye to eye! ha! So yeah... keep reading and I'll keep writing...deal? (oh quick, NB, this conversation carries over from chapter 2 so you might just want to read the last few lines of chapter 2 to refresh your memory : D)**

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><p>"Give me one good reason why not Sherlock, or I swear I will do it for you."<p>

Sherlock felt angry now too. He'd heard John question hundreds of time whether or not he was human, but did Molly really think so little of him, of his humanness that she thought he was doing this lightly, that this wasn't the last resort. He'd concede that often his cases became somewhat of a game to him; the need to solve the problems, the desire to figure out what no one else could was at times paramount to him. But this case, this final problem and the solution he'd come up with, well this had never been a game. Losing the only man he'd ever truly considered his friend – that wasn't a game.

"The only reason Mrs Hudson, John and Lestrade are alive right now is because the world believes me to be dead. Until I can figure out how to change that fact, and with Moriarty gone I see little hope, I can never return to being who I once was."

Her anger seemed to have subsided and she was sliding back onto the sofa. The pair sat for a long time in silence. He tried once more to run it all through in his mind, but as was the case each and every time, all he could see was just how thoroughly Moriarty had demolished him, his life. He could find no escape, no flaws in Moriarty's plan, no way to comfort his friends without putting them in danger. Occasionally in between his thoughts he would look up and see Molly staring at him. He felt it was a little ridiculous that she went a deep shade of crimson each time he caught her. Ridiculous – but not as annoying as it once had been.

As he watched her, pretending to watch TV, he felt it again. Alien thoughts of how much hurt him being here must be causing her. He actual felt tired, tired from all these pointless emotions! Oh how he longed to go back to being Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm sorry if I, sorry for, Molly, I'm sorry for all of this. Sorry if I've ever hurt you in the past, or if me being here now, if this, if in some way I'm making you feel uncomfortable. I'm sure you've noticed that I seem to think differently to almost everyone else, well no actually from everyone else. John used to say that I had the mind of a robot. Of course that's ridiculous, if I had the mind of a robot I wouldn't be constricted by all these emotions, but I think perhaps, though he worded it completely wrong, maybe he was onto a good point. My mind seems less effected by external factors or stimuli than average persons. I seem to have been able to objectively look at the world without feeling anything towards it.

Until now.

So I'm now aware that my behaviour in the past, and my need for your help these past few days, not to mention me just turning up unexpected here tonight, may have caused you some uneasiness. If that is the case, then I'm sorry."

Molly was stunned. That was the longest she'd ever heard Sherlock talk without showing off or being rude to someone. The events of the past few days really seemed to have affected him in ways she hadn't thought were even possible for him. Though now she took the time to think it through, she supposed she'd seen it all happen. She'd worked with him for years and he'd quite often been rude to her and yet just a few weeks ago, when he'd gone off on one of his showy moments at Christmas, he'd actually apologised and kissed her cheek. Surely that should have been a sign that something in him was changing.

And that change, she was positive, was down to John Watson. For the first time in his life, Sherlock cared what someone else thought about him. She'd heard it in his voice, when he'd talked about John calling him a robot –that had really bothered Sherlock.

She stood up and moved to the chair opposite Sherlock's, before sitting she pulled it closer to his then sat crossed legged and waited for him to continue. After all, he'd said he needed someone to talk to, he might care what John thought, but she doubted as to whether he would want or even listen to her opinion.

"I told John he wasn't my friend once you know, a few months ago when we were on a case, that one with the fake hound, you remember us telling you about? I think maybe that is one of the first times I ever felt truly regretful, that I actually wanted to take back what I'd said the instant I'd said it. Of course I felt like that again at Christmas, when I was, in John's words once you'd left, a complete arse to you and all because you'd spent time and care wrapping my present. That was probably the first time I ever felt like I didn't even like the man I'd become."

His horror at such a move be damned, Molly leant over and put her hand on top of his. "You're a good man deep down Sherlock. At least that's what I've always believed."

As if he needed to freak her out anymore and do something else entirely out of character, he even gave her a quick smile.

"And I have truly learnt Molly that you are someone I can always rely on, whether just to listen to me or to supply me with dead bodies." There was that impossibly beautiful smile again, she couldn't take this side to Sherlock much longer it was just too… dazzling.

"What are friends for if not to supply the odd cadaver here and there?" This time he actually laughed.

"What indeed!"

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><p><strong>Next post up tomorrow :-) Thanks for the reviews, they keep Sherlock entertained and stop him from putting dead bodies parts in my fridge... more would be appreciated, for the health of my kitchen! :-) <strong>


	4. My friend died today

**Thanks so much for the reviews, every single one means a lot. Hope you're still enjoying this, I'm really starting to enjoy writing these characters now... more to John come in subsequent chapters, be patient, I promise he will appear :-) **

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><p>As the grief and pain of the past few days began to sink in, Molly realised just how exhausted she really felt. She was fighting her eyes, begging them to stay open for fear that if she were to sleep, Sherlock would be dead again when she awoke.<p>

"You're not leaving tonight are you?" she finally asked, though she knew he'd think her pathetic, but the courage to do so came from her now desperate need to sleep.

"I hadn't really planned ahead. I just need to think."

Molly stood up surprisingly quickly for someone who felt so drained of energy. Her brain seemed to have jumped in and told her it was now or never. This could only play out two ways, either Sherlock Holmes was going to disappear and to the world be dead and in that case, she probably would never see him again, or he was going to go back to his normal life at Baker Street and they'd go back to – whatever it was they had before. Him occasionally acknowledging her existence and her being pathetic enough to crave that acknowledgement, however crass and rude it was. So she could lay her cards on the table – as if he didn't know everything she felt anyway, or she could march off to bed and never see him again.

The feeling of her heart being ripped from her chest left her with no doubt that she no longer had the any choice. Her mind and heart had teamed up against her and made the decision without her consent.

"Don't go Sherlock. Stay here, if you want I mean. Stay with me, well not with me, but just stay. I can help you, not that you need help, I know you don't need anything but Sherlock we can get through this together. I know we can. Please, just stay."

Sherlock longed for 48 hours ago, when such a rambling, such a desperate plea from anyone, including Molly would have made him feel nothing but the need to get away from the maniac as quickly as possible. Now he could see so clearly how the only maniac in the room was himself. He'd thought he had everything so clearly marked out, but for the first time in his life, sentimentality had overridden a perfectly good plan and instead of sitting somewhere in South America right now, he was here, watching Molly seemingly fall apart.

Why had he come here? He'd said goodbye to her already.

"I can't stay."

Here tears were silent as they slid down her cheeks and crept into the corners of her mouth, filling her mouth with salt. In the back of her mind, somewhere there was still some sane part of her that realised she probably wouldn't even be crying if she wasn't so tired, at least not until after he'd left. She could feel reality slipping away from her, it wasn't just that she was physically tired, but she was emotionally drained too, and for the first time in her life she really thought she might faint.

She'd trained as a medical student for seven years, then spent the past five cutting up dead bodies, and never once had she even felt the slightest bit queasy, and yet she'd spent one afternoon with Sherlock and she was ready to hit the floor.

"Maybe it would be better for me to go now."

With that Molly started to audibly cry .

"Sherlock no please. You can't die twice in one day. I mean I know you were never really dead, but when you said goodbye to me at St Barts, when you walked away, it felt like you really were gone, and gone forever . I'm rambling, sorry, God I'm so tired! Please just stay with me for tonight, let me sleep then in the morning I can help you. You said you needed someone to talk to; I can listen to you, to your ideas. Just stay tonight, just tonight, please."

Sherlock was sure without even the slightest shadow of doubt that just a few short days ago he'd have simply been able to just walk away from Molly and all her silly female hormones. But tonight seeing the pain in her face, the exhaustion in the body, he felt real pain that his actions had cause her to hurt this much.

She really did look like she might faint, he moved to her side to support her, he really hadn't thought her so meek, but then she'd probably never helped anyone stage their own death before. He put one arm around her waist to better support her weight and walked her into her bedroom.

Once she was in bed he pulled the covers over her and sat down. Almost without his consent his arm outstretched towards her face, as she'd already began to drift off, and his hand brushed slowly down her cheek. He knew that he would never be able to explain why he'd just done that, or why he felt he had to be here right now. After his supposed death he'd thought only of John and Mrs Hudson, but now he knew that he needed Molly to be safe and well too.

He stood to make his way back into the living room but Molly turned to him, lifting her head off her pillow to look at him, a simple movement which seemed to drain what little strength she had left. "Please promise me, please don't leave tonight. You see I had this friend, well he wasn't really a friend, bit of pig really, always being rude to people, making these deductions that make people feel 2 feet tall, but he died today. I'm grieving for my friend, this guy, a great guy really called Sherlock Holmes."

"I promise I won't leave tonight." He tried to summon a smile.

"I don't believe you." She said tersely. "Making promises doesn't mean anything to you."

He walked back over to her bed, kicked of his shoes and lay on top of the duvet she was wrapped under. He turned to face her back and wrapped his arm around her.

He'd never admit it to anyone, least of all himself or perhaps he didn't even recognise how good it felt to be comforting someone in his arms. He couldn't yet understand why he let out a sigh of relief as Molly relaxed into his arms and started to fall asleep.

Whether she heard him or not, he'd never know, but to the woman wrapped in his arms he whispered, "I made a new friend today, this great woman called Molly Hooper."

8888

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><p><strong>Liked it? Hated it? Loved it? Loathed it? Let me know! :-) <strong>


	5. A Grieving Man

**You guys are amazing! All the alerts and reviews really really do mean so much! When I hit a bit that is difficult to write, I read your reviews again and it spurs me on! So thanks again :-) **

**If I haven't said it before... the rating is mainly for language and a few other bits and bobs. So yeah... be warned! :-) **

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><p>8888<p>

It was as though everything was moving a half speed today. She would swear that she actually saw her mug slowly tumble towards the ground, and her mind willed her to reach out and grab it. As it hit the lab floor she heard nothing when it bounced once, twice, three times before spinning and finally coming to a stop. Without bothering to pick it up, she slumped down on her stool and looked at the unmoving hands on the clock on the wall. This was without doubt the longest, the slowest day of her life.

She knew.

She'd needed last night, she'd needed him to stay with her, to comfort her and uncharacteristically he'd known that. And he hadn't said goodbye this time, but he had hugged her lightly and kissed her cheek, thanking her for allowing him to stay.

She knew he'd be gone when she got home.

When she'd woken up this morning she'd been surprised he was still there, still in her bed…

_She was trapped, they'd cornered her completely. It was impossible; she was never going to be able to rescue him now. It was too late. Her heart was racing, she was going to lose him again, they were going to take away the one person she'd cared about in a long time. She was being pinned down; she could hear… she could hear, was that someone snoring?_

_Sherlock. He was here next to her, alive, asleep… snoring! _

_He stayed, just like he'd promised. And she was in his arms, or under one of them at least. She wriggled just long enough for him to stir and loosen his grip, then she snuggled back down into her pillow and drifted off to world where Sherlock Holmes could be saved, and she was the only one who could do it. _

8888

Unlocking her front door she mechanically hung up her handbag, her coat and scarf and walked into her living room. Work, at its half speed had been exhausting. Flicking the lights on she nearly screamed, she'd expected to see nothing but her empty little room, but sat in the chair that Sherlock had occupied only a few days before was John Watson.

"Hey Molly. Sorry to drop in like this, I thought about texting you, ringing you, but lying is too easy over the phone. Sherlock taught me that. People feel safe when they can't be seen, be heard. They will say anything. So I thought I'd pop in and ask you face to face.

Where is he Molly?"

Molly slumped down onto her sofa, "I don't know what…"

"Sherlock, Molly, where is the bastard?"

Did he know, was he guessing or was this just the desperate plea of a grieving man?

"John, Sherlock's dead."

He was shaking his head repeatedly, "No, no. You see I'm not stupid. I've been through all of this and none of it makes sense. None of it. Sherlock, he wouldn't do this, he wouldn't die with the world thinking he was a fake, he pretended not to care what people thought, but winning, winning was important to him, winning was what it was all about. I could have understood if he'd been killed, murdered, I could understanding him loosing the game, but giving up, Sherlock give up the game? Admit defeat. No, he's not he can't be dead."

John wasn't looking at Molly anymore. He was staring at the floor, she felt as though his little rant was less for her benefit and more of a need to continually convince himself, to keep saying out loud the reasons why Sherlock had to be alive.

"How did you get…"

John sighed, "How did I get in? Back door, hair pin, something Sherlock taught, he thought it was annoying that I couldn't get into locked rooms without a key. You really should get a deadbolt or something.

Sherlock's not fucking dead, he's, he can't, I nee…"

He was crying, head in his hand, this tough ex soldier, the funny, cheeky John Watson. Sherlock's other half… in a platonic way. He was crying. It wasn't like when she cried, a man holding a new born baby in an advert could set her off. No, a man like John crying was a sign, a sign he'd reached the end, he was grieving for Sherlock and he was coming to the end of the denial stage. She hated Sherlock for putting her in this position, for making John grieve for a heart that could still beat; but she loved him for everything else.

She moved to the chair opposite John's and pulled it closer, just like she'd done the night before with Sherlock. "John I know it's hard, I've not really moved much from my sofa. I go to work, spend the day in a haze then come home a cry," so far, she hadn't said anything that wasn't true.

"Sherlock wouldn't want you to do this to yourself John; he wouldn't understand why you'd want to either." She scoffed sadly, "He's not coming back John, we've got to move on. All of us."

John looked at her. "He really is dead then. I was sure, so positive! I've been trying to think for days where he'd go, who he'd turn to. I thought of you straight away, but you looked so upset at the funeral I didn't want to make it any worse for you. Oh Molly I'm so sorry. This is the last thing you need."

He stood to leave, "John, come back anytime. Maybe, I dunno, but maybe one day we'll be able to talk about him, without wanting to cry or scream. Maybe one day we'll even be able to laugh about how annoying and amazing he was!

John managed a smirk, "Yeah, maybe."

"I can't believe he's dead Molly. Sherlock Holmes dead. I… Sorry again Molly. Oh and sorry for breaking in. I jus… dunno. Dead, he's dead. I can't think… Molly, I will see you soon, bye."

He stepped out of her door then abruptly turned back to face her, "No, sorry. I need to hear you say it Molly, I need to, just tell me. Is he really dead?"

She thought she'd managed to get through it without having to actually lie; a lie of omission was nowhere near as bad as what she was going to have to do now.

"John, Sherlock Holmes jumped off St Bart's, he's dead."

No matter how many times she said it or heard it, Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead and to Molly Hooper, he never would be.

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><p><strong>So John's appearance... despise it? Heart it? Love it? Loathe it? :-S Let me know! :-D<strong>


	6. 4 packs of fags & a 3 nicotine patch

**oh my word, thanks for the reviews :-) To see that people think I'm keeping in character and that this keeps true to the show... that just makes me really chuffed! :-) I really enjoyed writing this and the next section, which I wrote at the same time. I found it really hard to split, so I hope this was the right place to keep you all hanging :-) lol. I'll put the other part up tomorrow. **

**Language warning (again) **

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><p>8888<p>

It felt like she'd just plunged a knife into John's back. Plunged it in, twisted it round, pulled it out and lunged at him with it again. She'd lied to him, watched him cry and though she could have helped, could have eased his pain with three little words, she simply hadn't. She'd just sat there and watched, watched him fall apart.

She was so thankful it was Friday. Sherlock was gone. She'd been a complete bitch to John. Her weekend was going to consist of climbing into bed and staying there until Monday.

It was time to grieve for Sherlock all over again. Oh she knew she should take some comfort in the fact that she at least knew he was alive, but the horrible truth was, she was never going to get over Sherlock, because she knew he was alive and probably continually in danger. She was also pretty sure that she was never going to see him again.

She couldn't explain the excruciating pain all this was putting her through. It was as though there was a huge weight on her heart, crushing it. As if someone had forced all the air to leave her lungs, as though she was being repeatedly hit over the head with a blunt object.

She didn't know whether she hated him or loved him. That wasn't true, she hated him and loved him.

Now all she needed to do was forget him.

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She was staring at him. This time he was sure of it. She must recognise him, though how he had no idea. He was certain he'd never met her. He pulled out his phone, leant back in his seat and tried to ignore her.

"We will shortly be arriving at London Euston where this service will terminate."

As the automated announcement finished, the driver made another. "Unfortunately due to some signal issues we are going to be delayed getting into London Euston by about 15 minutes. Thank you for choosing to travel with us today. Sorry for the delay."

Sherlock watched as almost every single person in the carriage took out their mobile phones, huffing in annoyance as they did and rang someone presumably connected to their careers and started ranting that due to this 15 minute delay, their whole day was now going to have to be completely rescheduled.

He couldn't help but feel confused. How did people live like this? Surely if a slightly delayed train was going to ruin your whole day, you'd simply get an earlier train. The way people thought, astounded him, daily; and bored him too.

The woman who'd been staring knocked his arm as she made her way back to her seat. "Sorry," she said as she smiled down at him.

He looked at all the ordinary people surrounding him and almost wished he could meet someone extraordinary. Though he took that thought back the minute it had registered in his head. He'd met someone who was extraordinary once, Moriarty, and he'd nearly lost everything because of him.

It had been just over 3 years since Sherlock had faked his own death. He'd stayed in London for a few days, with Molly to give himself time to think. He'd had little time to figure out what he was going to do after his death. He'd realised quite quickly that he'd have to leave London quite quickly, leave the country and track down anyone he could find who had been connected to Moriarty. That was the only way his friends could ever be truly safe again.

He had meant to leave straight after his funeral but the speech John had made at his grave had done something to Sherlock. The words John spoke had made Sherlock _feel _something, and he couldn't leave until he knew John was dealing with everything.

He hadn't had to wait too long. He'd known that John would go to Molly. He'd known that John wouldn't be able to move on until he could accept that Sherlock Holmes really was dead. He'd hidden a camera in her living room and waited. As he'd watched his friend break down, cry even and as he'd watched Molly lie for him, he'd felt so many emotions that he'd immediately bought 4 packs of cigarettes from a local shop and chain smoked them all – whilst still wearing 3 nicotine patches.

He needed the nicotine to focus his brain, to override the emotions that were literally driving him insane. It was as though recent events had given his heart a voice. Normally ruled by the logical and the fool proof his brain was now fighting with a gentler less definite side.

It was a small part to be sure, and most of the time he could override his heart, but occasionally it did things without his consent. Like wrap Molly Hooper in his arms the last night he'd seen her, or break into her lab and steal back his phone which had been stored with his other personal effects that Mycroft hadn't yet collected from the hospital.

It was obvious that John was going to take to texting him. It was how they had communicated from the very beginning.

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><p><strong>I enjoyed writing this and the next bit sooooo much, I really hope you all enjoyed reading it?<strong>


	7. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes

**Thank you for the reviews! I sound like a broken record, but they really do mean a lot! :0)**

**Hey all, so I know that loads of people have written texts to Sherlock from John, but I just think that it's maybe one of the only ways that John would have been able to get some of his feelings out... hopefully you'll think I've done a goodish job :-S **

**Definite**** fowl language warning! **

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><p>8888<p>

At first, as Sherlock had flown straight to Argentina, the texts had been short and to the point.

_Where are you?_

_Don't be dead. _

_I don't believe you. _

_I will NOT believe you're dead Sherlock. _

_Stop this. _

These texts continued as he moved up into Brazil. Next as Sherlock flew to Australia, the texts changed to ones which suggested that John had definitely moved on to anger.

_FUCK YOU_

_I always knew you were a selfish bastard._

_If you are alive, why don't you just throw yourself off… _

_I hate that I fell for all your shit. I hate that I still miss you. I hate that you're such a self bastard. I hate you Sherlock. _

_You fucking dicking, wanking arsehole! I HATE YOU SHERLOCK HOLMES. _

_I DON'T BELIVE IN SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES. _

_I didn't mean that last one. _

_Still hate you though. _

As Sherlock moved through Indonesia, killing off 1 of Moriarty's men on his travels, and moved forward into India, the tone of the messages changed again. These were perhaps the worst messages.

_Sherlock I'm sorry. Listen mate, I'll do anything, anything. Just come home._

_We can both go away somewhere, start again._

_Please God, I'll never swear again, I'll be a better man. Please. _

_Fucking PLEASE don't be dead Sherlock. _

_Sherlock, I've never asked you for anything. I've listened to you, been there for you, helped you. And I've never asked for one thing. I'm asking now. Come Home. _

_I miss you, my only true friend. Is there nothing I can do to persuade you?_

_God please let him just be alive, take me instead. I'm worthless. Please Sherlock, I need him, the world needs him. Take me. _

Three or four or these messages had made him seriously think about jumping on the next plane, train or boat and head straight back to 221B Baker Street as fast as he possibly could. But, it wasn't that easy. He was closing in on Moriarty's men, destroying more of them each day. As he started to go through Iran and in to Turkey, the texts became less frequent.

_I miss you. I don't know what the point is anymore._

_Nothing makes sense in my life._

_It doesn't matter, we'll all be dead soon._

_I'll be dead soon. I hope I'm dead soon._

_Lestrade came round today, the bastard. He cleaned up and made me get out of bed. The bastardy bastard. _

He knew that the texts about being dead where just the depressive part of grieving and that he didn't really mean it. It wasn't until 3 years after Sherlock had first died that John sent his first text to Sherlock which suggested that he'd got through the stages of grieving and had accepted that Sherlock was never coming back.

_Sherlock Holmes WAS my best friend._

_Sherlock Holmes WAS an arrogant arsehole_

_Sherlock Holmes WAS the greatest man I've ever known_

_Sherlock Holmes died 3 years ago today. I will always love you Sherlock, you Bastard. _

_Saw a deerstalker today when I was with Lestrade, we laughed so much about how you hated those pictures, those of you in that hat, my stomach actually hurt. I miss you Sherlock. I'll never forget what you did for me. _

_You bought me back to life Sherlock. Love you, hate you, miss you. _

He didn't get any texts as he continued to move through Europe. There wasn't much more he could do now, Moriarty's men who were left, Mycroft would have to deal with, they were either in places that Sherlock couldn't get into without drawing too much attention, or they were in places he didn't _want _to go into.

It was whilst he was in France that he got his final text from John.

_Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. _

That was the text that had convinced Sherlock it was time to go home. He'd wanted John to be okay, to live his life, to be happy. He didn't want him to say goodbye, not now, not ever.

That is why he was sat on a train waiting to pull into London Euston.

"Hey, look I never do this. But erm, well I guess I was just wondering if, well I thought maybe you'd want to grab a coffee sometime?"

The girl who'd been staring -

So that's why she'd been looking at him. She found him aesthetically pleasing. How ordinary – how boring. She was, he supposed, what the world would consider incredibly beautiful, to him she was just plain and boring.

Ordinary.

"I'm actually not from the area." He lied, "Only here for a few days, business you know."

She smiled at him, "No problem. How about now, just a quick coffee?"

Sherlock smiled, he knew exactly what he was going to do once this train pulled into London, "Sorry, I really can't. I'm meeting a friend."

As he told her this he pulled out his phone and sent a text.

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Molly was just about to leave St Barts, she could hear her phone going off in her bag, but her hands were full. If she could just move her bag round there, then put her coat over her arm, then she could… just as she reached her phone, everything else fell. She crouched and fumbled around on the floor, pushing everything back in to her handbag, then she flipped open her phone and read the text message. The contents made her topple over and her handbag went tumbling out of her hands once more.

Sitting on the cold hospital floor just in front of the lifts she read two new messages.

_Meet me at London Euston, 10 minutes. SH_

_Please meet me at London Euston, your friend, Sherlock. _

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading - next part up tomorrow. :-) Please do let me know what you think ... good texts? bad texts? bloody awful texts? Let me know! :)<strong>


	8. Wine, Beer, a violin and a skull

**Hey! I'm really glad you all enjoyed John's text, I promise he'll be making a more substantial appearance soon!**

**For now, I believe Molly just received a text message? As always, rating is for language.**

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><p>8888<p>

It had been about 3 years since she'd seen him. Since the last time he'd walked out of her life. In that time she'd had a few boyfriends and one serious relationship which had all ended the same way. She was clinging on to the last few months of her 20's and yet she was still unmarried, not even in a long term relationship and without any chance of having children anytime soon. She supposed she should feel content that she at least had a job that she loved and most of the time she was.

Happy content Molly Hooper -That's not how she looked as she sat on the freezing hospital floor staring at her phone.

He was back.

Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock fucking Holmes spoiled every relationship she'd ever tried to have. The first two guys she'd dated after he'd left hadn't stuck around long enough to figure out why she was quite distant, why she froze every time she saw a guy with dark curly hair or someone in a long coat, someone with a blue scarf. But Brad, the only serious relationship she'd ever had. He'd known.

He told her one night when they were curled up on the sofa watching a film that he knew, he could tell that every time her phone buzzed or someone called round unexpectedly, he could see that there was a small part of her that was hoping, praying that it was someone… he didn't know who or what they meant to Molly, but he knew she was missing someone important. He also guessed that this mystery person was probably a guy and he was the reason that she could seem quite distant sometimes.

Listening to him, calmly tell her that it was okay; that he understood she had a past and he hoped that he could make her forget about this other guy one day had made her happy. It had allowed her to drop her guard, to let Brad get to know the real her, to have a real relationship.

Almost.

3 years to the day that Sherlock had died John Watson turned up at her door with a bottle of wine (for her) beer (for himself), a violin and a skull. The pair had sat together talking about Sherlock, and all the things he'd done. They'd laughed at him, cried over him and mourned for him. It broke Molly's heart to be lying like this to John again, but she could see it, see in his eyes, that though he'd never forget about his best friend, that he'd never stop loving him, that John at least was moving on. The anniversary of his death was something that would likely be hard for John for the rest of his life, but Molly?

Every single day of her life was still hard.

Each morning she woke up, she still longed for him, prayed she'd bump into him, that he'd turn up at her door with some body parts and want to blow something up in her kitchen. That's how she'd live the rest of her life, waiting.

Waiting for Sherlock Holmes.

Once John had gone home, sometime early the next morning, she'd gone straight round to Brad's and told him everything, (everything she could) about Sherlock. She didn't tell Brad his name, or many of the details, but she told him that she'd been involved (she wished) with a guy who had needed to leave because of his work and that she knew she would never be able to see him again, but that she spent every day waiting for him to knock on her door.

Then Brad had asked her the one question she really didn't want him too.

"So if he did come back one day, where would that leave us?"

She'd left his not long after he asked that question. Left as Molly Hooper, single and alone once again.

That had been a few months ago, and now, as she finally gathered herself off the floor and headed down in the lift, out of the hospital and on her way to Euston station, she could only think of one thing –

Whether to punch him or kiss him?

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><p><strong>Hope you liked this? Poor Molly :-( So what do we think, punch or kiss? :-D<strong>


	9. Fatality on the line

**Hey guys, thanks for the reviews! Oh my word you are all amazing! They really do push me on and keep me going! So I'm incredibly sorry that I haven't posted for a few days, things got a little busy with work, but all is calm once again :-) Hope you enjoy this, so what was the vote... punch and kiss? ...**

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><p>The boards at Euston station were full of travel information. The 13.25 to Nottingham was delayed, the 13.30 to Tring was now boarding. She scanned the boards, not really sure what she was looking for and aware that she was looking at the departure boards and not the arrivals anyway. In front of her eyes, as she looked at the big black boards, one by one, they went blank, the writing seemingly having been deleted.<p>

"We are sorry to announce that all trains are currently suspended, this is due to a fatality on the tracks. Please listen for further information. Once again we apologise for any inconvenience this may cause our passengers, please be advised we are checking whether other operators will accept tickets from this station."

Molly froze in a sea of business men and women, backpackers, students going back to University, commuters all bustling around, calling loved ones, colleagues or other train providers. Some rushed towards the underground, other left the station altogether.

Molly just stood there.

A fatality on the track.

She couldn't lose him, it wasn't him, it couldn't be him, it wouldn't be him.

Please God don't let it be him. She could feel that she was about to start hyperventilating so she slowly managed to walk over to the few seats by the bins. She sat with her bag in her lap and her head on her bag. She knew she was being stupid, but she couldn't help it, couldn't force herself to think rationally. Since receiving those messages her brain had been coming up with scenarios to stop her getting her hopes up too much. Convincing her that it might not even be Sherlock Holmes, that he might just need something from her and he'd be gone before she could even really say hello. That he simply wanted access to St Barts or to the morgue or that he just wanted to check on John through her.

But convincing her that this time he really was dead, that the fatality on the tracks was Sherlock, that was cold, she chided her own thought process. Wow. Sherlock Holmes really was driving her insane.

She pulled a sports bottle out of her bag that she'd refilled with water and finished the last mouthful before throwing it into the bin a seat away without first looking up.

"I think you meant to put this in the recycling bin miss." The sudden noise so close to her made her start a little.

"Oh I didn't see a recycle bin." She replied as she took her first look at the man who was speaking to her. He was a janitor for the station, dressed in the red virgin uniform; he had one of those big rubbish carts and was putting new bags into the bin which she'd just thrown her bottle into. He lifted the lid off and waved it in front of her face, the smell made her cover her mouth and nose.

"It says it miss; clear as day on this 'ere lid, does it not. No plastic bottles. Yet you just throw it in, bold as brass."

She could swear she heard him tut.

He sat down in the seat next to her, and she cursed herself for being snobbish enough to actually lean away from him slightly. "I suppose I can let it go this time, you look sad so I don't want to make your day worse."

Finally Molly smiled a little, "Thanks, I promise I'll be more careful with my rubbish from now on." She couldn't help but see the funny side to how seriously the man took his job.

"You do that Molly. Now I guess I'll leave you alone so you don't miss your friend when he walks on by."

At first she smiled, nodded, opened her mouth to thank him and extended her hand to shake the one he'd offered. "How, name, what. You're? Molly."

As the man, who was still holding her hand smiled, she could see what she'd missed for the past three years, the piercing cold yet sparkling eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><strong>Punch, Kiss, assault, walk away from, jump... what would you do to him first? :-D plus let me know what you thought! :-)<strong>


	10. Fights, Heart break and Dust

**Hello! Okay so first of all, I am so sorry to anyone who was reading this story before I stopped posting. Personal reasons meant that I had no time to carry on with the story. I also realise that chapter 8 and 9 weren't up to the same standard as previous chapters. I may re-write them at some point... although for now I want to concentrate on finishing this story. I'm hoping you will (if you are still reading - I won't blame you if you're not) enjoy chapter 10 as much as you enjoyed some of the earlier chapters. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 10 – Fights, Heart break and Dust. <strong>

Every inch of him was aching, he was definitely getting too old for this, it had been a while since he'd been in a fight; but the majority of the pain he felt at that particular moment wasn't physical. He kept playing the scene over in his head, how had he fallen for it? Of course it had all been a lie. The last 3 years of his life had all been built upon a steaming heap of lies. His hand throbbed as he took the ice off his bruised and bloodied knuckles.

He sat back resting his head on the back of a chair he'd fallen asleep on so many times, but that was so long ago, he hadn't stepped foot in this place for years – too many ghosts, as Mrs Hudson was always saying. He'd just left it as it was, after… took a few of his own things and just left it all to get covered in thicker and thicker layers of dust. Even the violin still stood leaning against the wall by the window overlooking Baker Street, a violin that hadn't been played in over 3 years.

He wasn't sure why he'd come here after he'd hit him, it was just the first place that came to mind. As he'd hailed a cab and said the words "221B Baker Street" it had felt like an almost unconscious decision. Although it was the place where he'd faced the most danger, even more so than in Afghanistan, being there made John feel safe and at home, and that was what he had needed. Just somewhere he could think things through and be alone.

"How's that hand? Will you be wanting a cup of tea then dear? I don't mind just this once. Oh it is nice to see you back in that chair, just like old times." Of course he hadn't banked on Mrs Hudson being at home.

He hoped she wouldn't ask why he was there, though he could see every detail of what he'd witnessed replying in his head; it felt as though hearing himself say the words would make it real in a way that would mean it was all over.

"I do wish you hadn't moved out, though I understand why you did, too many ghosts ay. You know I swear sometimes when I'm sat downstairs at night I can hear him playing his beautiful music on that violin,"

Was he really alone again? There had been a time, the last time he'd sat in this apartment that he'd felt like he'd always be alone, that he'd never be happy again. But slowly she'd helped him come to terms with it all, everyone else was so careful not to mention Sherlock whenever John was in the room, it made him feel like a sick, weak child that they all felt they needed to protect, but not his Mary; she was always mentioning Sherlock, asking John questions about him, wanting to know more about this brilliant man that she'd never had the chance to meet. At first every time she said his name, it had made him angry, a few times it made him cry but eventually he found that he could tell her stories of all the things they'd gotten up to, and each time it seemed to hurt a little less. She'd been the one to help him heal.

Maybe that was why seeing her wrapped in her bosses arms had felt like he was simultaneously drowning in icy cold water and being punching repeatedly in the gut. Maybe that was why punching her boss in the face a few times had made him feel a little better, for a few minutes.

How could she do this to him? To them, to what they had been building for the past 3 years.

"'Course I suppose it could just be the medication I'm taking for my hip, it does make me a bit doolally. But it is just so clear and loud, I've even wandered up here a few times, silly I know, but I just had to check. It's always just sitting there, in exactly the same place all these years."

Mrs Hudson was bustling round the kitchen, as she mused John hadn't really been paying much attention. All he could think about was Mary and where it had all gone so wrong, but at the same time there was something in the back of his mind that was telling him what Mrs Hudson was saying was important.

"John? I said do you still have sugar?" Before he knew why, he was up on his feet and crossing the room to the violin.

"Oh John I really do think Sherlock would have wanted you to have that you know. Please take it, and then at least when I imagine that I can hear it at night I won't have to come up here and check it isn't really Sherlock standing there ignoring us all for days on end playing those silly Christmas songs." John picked up the violin, and stared at it. His brain was telling him something, he couldn't stop looking at the violin as he turned and twisted it in his hands.

Dust

"Mrs Hudson, have you tided in here?" Mrs Hudson looked perplexed.

"Really John does it look like I have? I've never seen dust so thick, it's probably a health violation or something. I really should but I just don't want to disturb anything, he was always so particular on where his stuff was and not wanting anything moved."

John wiped his fingers up and down the smooth surface of the dust free instrument in his hands. "But you haven't picked this up?" He asked holding up the violin, "or dusted it or anything?"

Mrs Hudson placed a tray with tea and biscuits on the coffee table, causing dust to disperse in every direction, "No, dear I haven't dusted anything – as you can see," she laughed as she blew off some dust that had settled on the biscuits. "Why do you ask?"

John put down the violin and headed for door. "I have to go Mrs Hudson, thanks for the tea."

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><p><strong>I hope you liked it? Next chapter will be up today or tomorrow... I promise! <strong>


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